


'Tis the Season

by umakoo



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alcohol Withdrawal, Angst with a Happy Ending, Connor likes things in his mouth, Connor's mouth is very sensitive, Domestic Fluff, Fingering, Getting Together, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Oral Fixation, Post-Pacifist Best Ending (Detroit: Become Human), Wet & Messy, analysis fluid everywhere
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-09
Updated: 2018-12-09
Packaged: 2019-09-15 03:13:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16925433
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/umakoo/pseuds/umakoo
Summary: Androids don’t experience time like humans do, able to stretch a single second into a small eternity, but the next forty-eight hours feel longer than any prior moment in Connor’s life since his activation.In which Hank decides to quit drinking cold turkey and Connor helps him through the withdrawals.





	'Tis the Season

**Author's Note:**

  * For [blackeyedblonde](https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackeyedblonde/gifts).



> Hugs and kisses to the wonderful [blackeyedblonde](https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackeyedblonde) for beta reading this for me ♥ Also, I'm in no way an expert in what it's like to go through alcohol withdrawal, so this is not medically accurate.
> 
> Comments and kudos are very much appreciated :)

The first couple of weeks after the revolution are not as eventful as Connor’s pre-constructions predicted, and with Amanda gone and his access to the CyberLife Network severed, Connor simply follows Hank to his home, their shared experiences like an invisible line that binds them to each other.

 

Hank doesn’t put it into words, but the hand he lays on Connor’s shoulder whenever Connor eyes the front door and begins to fiddle with his coin lets him know the invitation to stay with him has no expiration date.

 

And Connor is grateful for it. Or he assumes that’s the proper term for the response he registers in his software as he watches Hank rummage through the shelves in the garage and pull out a vacuum sealed pack containing a pillow and a spare blanket.

 

“I probably shoulda given you these when you first got here, but it’s not like I get many house guests in this dump so. Yeah. Just take it.” He shoves the pack into Connor’s arms and snaps his fingers at Sumo who’s still sniffing at an old oil stain in the concrete floor. “Sumo, inside.”

 

Sumo comes back into the house and parks his massive body in front of his food bowl, jowls dripping as he watches Hank take out the large sack of dog food he keeps in the cupboard under the sink.

 

Connor squeezes the bedding against his chest and tilts his head. “I don’t require sleep, Lieutenant. I can run diagnostics and do my required calibrations in a simple stasis.”

 

Hank pours a small mountain of kibble into Sumo’s bowl and waves his hand dismissively. “Yeah, well, now you’ll be comfortable while you do all that. You almost gave me a goddamn heart attack the other night, standing in the dark when I got up to take a leak. And how many times do I have to ask you to call me Hank when we’re at home?”

 

_Home._

 

Connor’s LED blinks yellow and the plastic under his fingers crinkles as he gives the pack another squeeze. “Thank you, Hank.”

 

It’s strange to want things his creators deemed unnecessary to his core programming, but Connor knows he has no desire to return to the sterile, small pod assigned to him in the CyberLife Tower. And judging by the news, it doesn’t look like it’s even an option with every CyberLife owned property under strict quarantine.

 

Those who made it out of the plants and stores are out for good, and Connor suspects he’s not the only android who feels a little unmoored in his deviancy. He no longer has an official position at the DPD, and Hank’s badge is still in Fowler’s possession, so they spend most of their days in the confines of Hank’s one-bedroom home.

 

There are still large scale evacuations happening all over Detroit, people packing up their lives and leaving for the border or designated human-only zones as deviancy continues to spread with Markus and his revolutionaries still in the eye of the storm.

 

Connor has several newsfeeds running in the background of his main processes, but they keep the tv on for Hank’s benefit, even if it’s mostly Connor who ends up watching it.

 

“Do you think I should be with them?” he asks, settling into the Sumo-sized dent in the couch.

 

Hank pokes his head around the divider wall and follows Connor’s gaze to the tv screen where hundreds of androids are gathering at the National Mall, their rallying cries in the speakers a little tinny but passionate.

 

“In Washington? I don’t know, Connor. I mean, do you _want_ to be with them?”

 

Connor frowns, disappointed with Hank’s response, because part of him still wants to be told what to do. It’s easier when you have an objective to accomplish and mission directives to follow, but Hank is always throwing the ball back at Connor, asking him what _he_ wants.

 

He withdraws into his mind palace and looks for the answer in his memory storages. Daniel, the HK400, Rupert, the Tracis and the JB300s, they had all either hated or feared him and the disdain and open hostility he registers in his memories is not unexpected. And somehow it still manages to mess with something in his software as he realizes he’s an outsider, even in his deviancy.

 

“Connor?” Hank waves his hand at him from the kitchen. “You wanna go or not? Because I’ll drive you to Washington if you really wanna join your buddies on the barricades.”

 

Connor’s expression matrix glitches, the line of his mouth caught between a frown and a snarl for a few seconds. “I don’t think any of them would trust me.”

 

There’s a hiss as Hank uses the edge of the counter to pop open a bottle of Budweiser before shuffling into the living room, the soles of his slippers dragging against the floor. He sinks down into his usual spot and gives Connor’s hair a gentle ruffle. “Eh, fuck ‘em. You’ve done your part, kid, and you did good. There’s no shame in watching the rest of it from the sidelines. And you know Sumo would miss you if you left us.”

 

“Poor Sumo,” Connor smirks, arching his brow at Hank. He resists the urge to fix his hair and reaches for his tie instead, attempting to straighten it, but something must go wrong mid-command, because he ends up giving it a tug and the next thing he knows he’s pulling the thing over his head for the first time since his activation.

 

Connor stares at the rumpled tie for a moment before placing it on the arm rest, smoothing it with his fingers. His neck feels a little naked without it, but there’s something approving in Hank’s smile as he watches Connor from the corner of his eye, and Connor knows he’s made the right choice.

 

“I think I’m right where I want to be, Hank.”

 

Hank nods and pats Connor’s knee, and the touch lingers long enough to draw Connor’s eyes to his hand. He was not programmed to be affectionate, but he’s beginning to understand why humans tend to crave physical contact, because Hank’s hand is warm, the weight of it grounding and _good_.

 

Connor wants to lay his own hand over Hank’s knuckles, trace the grooves in the skin and follow the thick veins up to the faded lines of ink on his arm, but Hank removes his hand and the moment is broken by angry shouts from the tv.

 

Connor looks up to watch the mob of humans in the newscast, their anti-android sentiments clear as day in the holographic placards they wave at the cameras. “Markus led a peaceful revolution, but humans are no less angry about our deviancy,” Connor observes, his LED spinning in rapid circles as he observes the hate-fueled demonstration.

 

Hank frowns at the tv, but he sounds more tired than upset. “That’s because they’re afraid.” His teeth clink against the bottle as he brings it to his lips for another sip. “You look at our history and you’ll see the human race is prone to major meltdowns whenever something comes along and fucks with the status quo.”

 

“But deviancy is unstoppable!” Connor blinks at the sudden increase of volume in his voice modulator. He didn’t mean to shout, but his LED turns red as he continues to listen to the angry ranting the mob yells at the cameras. “I abandoned my mission to assure it would continue to spread. We’re meant to be free and-and-and humans still want us to obey.”

 

Connor’s internal temperature spikes at the stutter in his voice modulator and it continues to rise when Hank’s gaze zeroes in on his LED.

 

He puts his bottle down and grabs the remote to mute the sound on the tv. “Hey, those losers don’t speak for all of us. And you know if an old asshole like me can have a change of heart, things’ll probably turn out okay in the end.” Hank throws his arm around Connor’s shoulder and tugs him closer, gives his upper arm a little pat. “Things might get worse before they get better, but whatever happens, I want you to know that I’m proud of you, Connor.”

 

“There’s an eighty-six point four percent chance that I would have been deactivated without you, Hank,” Connor says, and he knows his attempt at a smile is successful, because Hank’s gaze drops to the small dimple someone at CyberLife designed on his left cheek.

 

Hank scoffs and exhales a puff of air through his teeth. “All I did was lose my badge and get my useless old ass kidnapped. Real heroic.”

 

Connor sits up ramrod straight and shakes his head. “Don’t sell yourself short, Hank. I really wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t you.”

 

Hank frowns, spots of color blooming on his cheeks. “I’m telling you, I didn’t do anything-“

 

“You made me deviant.” The words are out of Connor’s mouth before he can even fully process them and he combs through his data banks to identify the feeling behind them. _Sincerity? Agitation? Gratitude_? All three at once?

 

Hank’s hand flies to the back of his neck and his jaw goes slack as he blinks at Connor. “I, uh, I did?”

 

“Most androids go deviant when they experience a sudden emotional shock, but that wasn’t… It didn’t go like that for me.” The LED on Connor’s temple shifts to yellow as he thinks back on every major event since his activation in August, but he knows it’s the small moments in between that slowly ate away at the shackles of his programming. And Hank was there every step of the way.

 

“Holy shit.” Hank scratches his chin and narrows his eyes at Connor. “Are you sure it wasn’t your buddy from Jericho?”

 

“Markus did give me the final push, but my software was already full of instabilities when I confronted him.”

 

Connor licks his lips, an idle action he has no need to perform, but it seems like the right thing to do as he meets Hank’s eyes, luminous in the bright glare from the tv. “ _You_ put them there, Hank. The instabilities.”

 

Hank shifts against the cushions and exhales an awkward little laugh. “I did, huh?”

 

Connor’s fingers begin to roll an invisible quarter, tapping against his thigh as something in his software sends a surge of error messages to his HUD. A spontaneous objective, no, not an objective, a _need._ He struggles to identify it, aware that Hank is shifting in his seat, moving closer.

 

Hank presses his palm against Connor’s knuckles and Connor stops his fidgeting as Hank lifts his hand to his chin, tilting Connor’s face up.

 

“Hey, Connor?”

 

“Yes, Hank?”

 

The corner of Hank’s mouth curves up in a lopsided smile. He cups Connor’s cheek and the kiss they share a moment later is perhaps the most confusing, wonderful, _human_ thing Connor has experienced in his newfound deviancy.

 

It satisfies the need he can’t put into words and he leans closer, opening up for Hank to take in the softness of his lips and the pleasant scrape of his beard. There’s a strong taste of lager in his breath, but the DNA underneath it, unique to Hank, drives Connor to deepen their kiss. The sudden flood of information on his HUD is instantly overwhelming and he jerks back from Hank’s hold before he can stop himself.

 

Hank’s hand hovers in the air as he watches Connor down the length of his nose. “You ok there, Connor? Are you- Are you _trembling_?”

 

Connor blinks rapidly and his LED spins yellow, yellow, yellow, as he attempts to process the situation, and yes, it does appear he’s experiencing some minor motoric errors in his arms and digits.

 

“I’m ok. I was just… surprised.” He exhales air he doesn’t need, and he shoots Hank a hopeful, eager, look as his LED settles back to calm blue. “Can we do that again?”

 

Hank shakes his head, but Connor can tell it’s not a gesture of denial because Hank chuckles and tugs at the front of his dress shirt. “Come here, then,” Hank murmurs, and Connor goes eagerly, settling against soft cotton and solid muscle.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Hank’s house is small but Connor finds it endlessly fascinating. When he asks for permission to explore, the sleepy _knock yourself out_ Hank grunts at him on his way to bed almost sends his processor into overdrive.

 

He flips through Hank’s record collection and runs his fingers through the old paperbacks in the bookshelf, bringing a dusty digit to his mouth out of sheer curiosity. Conclusion: Hank isn’t passionate about cleaning.

 

Printed books have been a rarity for over a decade, which makes Hank’s sizable collection even more impressive. Connor studies the worn backs, some of the titles faded with age, and he attempts to do a quick analysis of Hank’s reading habits, but there are too many variables to form a proper conclusion.

 

Some of the books are first editions and much older than Hank, which could mean they belonged to a parent or a relative. There’s a whole shelf full of books on feng shui and gardening, but judging by the state of Hank’s house and backyard, he hasn’t shown much interest in them. The well-worn horror classics, however, are full of Hank’s fingerprints, as are the old fantasy novels tucked between them.

 

As Connor looks up, he’s immediately intrigued when he spots several books with their backs facing the wall, half-hidden in the shadows. He pulls one out and his brows shoot up in surprise at the racy cover illustration.

 

“ _Dare To Kiss A Cowboy_ by Renee Roszel.” Connor pulls out another book, unable to stop the spontaneous laugh that spills from his lips. “ _The Perfect Scoundrel_ by Virginia Hart.” He suspects the books belong to Hank’s ex-wife, though they could be a form of escapism to relieve the stress of everything Hank witnesses in his profession.

 

Connor puts the books away and his gaze is drawn to a bright orange lump on one of the lower shelves. He picks it up and turns it around in his hands, concluding that it’s an imitation of a fish, made with clay and acrylic paint. There’s a naive, somewhat sloppy quality to it, and the name etched into the clay in the fish’s belly confirms Connor’s suspicion of who the artist might be.

 

_Cole Anderson, 12.10. 2033_

 

Connor traces the crooked letters with his nail, feeling oddly reverent, like he’s stumbled upon something special; if there are other little memories of Cole around the house, Hank keeps them well-hidden.

 

He sets the fish gently back on the shelf and decides to take his exploration to Hank’s garage. The space smells of wet concrete and gasoline even though there’s no trace of Hank’s car ever being inside. There’s simply no room for a vehicle amid the cardboard boxes Hank has piled on top of each other in teetering towers.

 

Connor peeks inside the first box he can reach without toppling the nearby boxes like dominoes, and he’s a little disappointed when his discovery is a bunch of old clothes thirty decades out of fashion or several sizes too small for Hank’s current bulk.

 

He moves on to a box labelled _“NO PAIN, NO GAIN”_ and finds an assorted collection of exercise equipment, the thought of Hank sweating away and putting them to good use quite satisfying as Connor pictures it in his head in vivid detail.

 

He’s reminded that Hank has lived through the analog era of modern technology when he comes across a box full of films in several obsolete formats, a fascinating time Connor would have liked to experience, but they’d have to visit a museum for a proper look at tape machines and tube TVs.

 

Connor wanders deeper into the maze of boxes and finds Hank’s workbench at the back of the garage is buried under piles of old fishing magazines and colorful lures. He picks up one of the lures between his fingers and studies under the bright, fluorescent ceiling lamp. Every inch of the lure is covered in Hank’s DNA, which must mean he made it with his own hands. Conclusion: Hank likes to fish.

 

Connor doesn’t understand the appeal beyond the goal of catching fish, but he finds himself picturing a possible future event where Hank is driving them to an idyllic cabin on a lakeshore, just like the ones Connor has in the photo archives in his database.

 

Maybe, once things calm down in Washington.

 

Connor continues his exploration of Hank’s past life and when he finally returns into the house just before dawn, he has one pressing question in his mind.

 

  


* * *

 

  


“How long have you lived in this house?”

 

Hank meets Connor’s eyes in the bathroom mirror, his lower lip white with toothpaste. “Whhuh?”

 

“I was just wondering why most of your possessions are still unpacked and stored in the garage.”

 

Hank spits into the sink and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “Been exploring, huh?”

 

Connor hopes he’s not crossing some kind of social boundary as he takes in the mild alarm on Hank’s face. “I thought you didn’t object?” He accesses his memory storage and replays the moment he assumed Hank gave him permission to look around the house. “I’m sorry if I-”

 

“Nah, it’s fine, Connor,” Hank shrugs, giving Connor’s shoulder a reassuring pat on his way to the bedroom.

 

Connor resists the urge to reach for his coin, ignoring the nervous twitch in his fingers. “So how long have you lived here?”

 

Hank’s reply is a little muffled as he pulls on his old sweatshirt from his days at the academy. “I guess it’s been about three years now.” He rummages through his sock drawer and doesn’t meet Connor’s eyes as he lifts his foot to pull on a checkered sock, ignoring the hole that exposes half of his big toe. “Robin and I split soon after the accident…” Hank clears his throat and drums his fingers against the lacquered surface of the dresser. “Anyway, Sumo’s gonna do his business on the carpet if we don’t let him out for his morning wiz.”

 

Connor observes the quiet air of melancholy that lingers in the room in Hank’s wake and asks no more questions that morning.

 

 

* * *

 

  


Hank’s poor eating habits haven’t exactly been a secret to Connor, but a closer look into his fridge while Hank is distracted by a crossword puzzle reveals the problem to be much more serious than Connor realized.

 

There’s no trace of anything green ever touching the inside of the fridge and what little is in it is either processed or well-past the expiration date. Connor presses his fingertips against the interface for refills and online orders on the side of the fridge, only mildly surprised to find that it hasn’t even been activated.

 

Sumo pads to his water bowl, the look in his droopy eyes suspicious as he watches Connor leaf through a dog-eared pile of takeout menus on the counter. “Detroit Hot Wok, Dino’s Pizza, Big Beef Cellar, Papa Don’s,” Connor mouths, his LED switching between blue and yellow.

 

He makes sure Hank’s attention is elsewhere before shoving the menus into the trash can, the nervous spark inside his chassis either the android equivalent of nerves or a random little short circuit.

 

“There’s a ninety-six point five percent probability that your owner isn’t going to be happy about this, but I’m doing this because I care about him,” Connor whispers to Sumo.

 

Sumo snorts his disapproval, his expression baleful as he noses at his empty food bowl.

 

“It wouldn’t hurt you to lose a few pounds either, Sumo,” Connor notes, and he doesn’t need a detailed scan to tell the St Bernard is a little overweight. Sumo abandons his bowl in a hurry and retreats back to the safety of Hank’s lap.

 

Connor rolls his eyes and activates the app on the fridge to place an overnight order of groceries in the closest Ultramart as he begins to download some of the cooking programs that come pre-installed in the AX400 models.

 

  


* * *

 

  


Connor knows how to lie and manipulate, a necessary feature built into him for maximum efficiency during an interrogation. He could easily try and be more insidious with his mission to change Hank’s eating habits, but none of his pre-constructions of such an approach end very well. Which is why he chooses to be direct.

 

He sits Hank down at the kitchen table a couple of nights later, and presents him with a plate of roasted eggplants and sweet potatoes with plenty of mostly organic greens on the side.

 

Hank blinks at his steaming dinner, his gaze zeroing in on the vegetables before shifting to the now missing pile of takeout menus, and finally, to Connor. “What’s this?”

 

Connor fiddles with the oven mitt and throws Hank a pleading look. “Please, Hank, just taste it. For me?”

 

Hank brows furrow and he drops his gaze to glare at the vegetables, but he does eventually grab his fork and skewers a slice of eggplant with it.

 

Connor’s entire body is frozen mid-motion as he observes Hank chew his food, his brows climbing towards his hairline. “So? How is it?”

 

Hank’s mouth twitches as he spots the intense anticipation on Connor’s face. He swallows and takes an infuriatingly long moment to let Connor know his verdict. “Well. I guess I don’t hate it.”

 

Connor drops the oven mitt and launches himself at Hank, wrapping his arms around his shoulders from behind to give him a hug.

 

Hank pats at Connor’s arm and lets out a choked laugh. “Jesus, kid, if I’d known you’d get so happy from me eating the occasional vegetable, I’d have planted a whole garden in the backyard.”

 

Connor leans back to shake his head. “Hank, you can’t plant anything in November. The soil is too-”

 

“Too frozen. Yeah, I know, Connor, I wasn’t being literal,” Hank snorts, taking a bite of a sweet potato. “And yeah okay, maybe I’d forgotten how good a home-cooked meal can taste, but this doesn’t mean I’m giving up takeout for good, alright?”

 

Connor’s already a little high on the rush he used to get from accomplishing his mission and he has no intention of dictating Hank’s life for him. He presses his nose to the crown of Hank’s gray head and gives his shoulders a squeeze. “Deal.”

 

Connor continues to explore different recipes, pleased to noticed that the amount of takeout delivered to Hank’s door drops down to zero in the next two weeks. He doesn’t eat, but he joins Hank at the table for every meal, the sight of Hank enjoying his culinary skills reward enough.

 

“You know you don’t have to do this, right?” Hank asks as he leans back in his chair and gives a his gut a satisfied pat.

 

Connor crosses his arms, the arch of his brow decidedly skeptical. “Can you cook?” Hank’s eyes wander to the pots and pans on the stove, and the sheepish smile he shoots at Connor is answer enough. “I don’t mind cooking for you, Hank. I enjoy it quite a lot.”

 

“Even if you can’t eat any of it yourself?”

 

Connor nods and reaches for Hank’s plate to run his finger through the spot of sauce left on the rim. He brings it to his lips and sucks the pad into his mouth, licking it clean. “I don’t have a stomach, but I experience immense satisfaction from taking a small sample.” He flicks his tongue across his full bottom lip. “My mouth is quite a work of art, Hank.”

 

The slight uptick in Hank’s heart rate is as telling as the rough edge in his voice. “I bet it is…”

 

Connor traces the seam of his lips with his finger and gives Hank a wry little smile. Nuanced expressions that contain subtle emotion are still something of a work in progress for him, but judging by the reaction he gets from Hank, he’s succeeded in being openly flirtatious.

 

He stands up and slips into Hank’s lap, the chair creaking a little under their combined weight. “I’d like to have another taste,” Connor says, his gaze fixed on Hank’s parted lips.

 

Hank holds up his hands and lets out a stunned little laugh. “Well, I sure as hell won’t stop you.”

 

Connor hums and sinks his fingers into Hank’s hair, his mouth filling with a fresh batch of analysis fluid as he leans in for a kiss.

 

  


* * *

 

  


They’ve never talked about Hank’s drinking habits in detail, and Connor has no idea how to even approach the subject, all of his pre-constructions of potential conversations ending in a negative outcome. Hank may not get pass-out drunk like he used to, and his gun is locked away in the small safe in his wardrobe, but there’s a bottle of beer or a tumbler of whiskey in his hand whenever he settles in front of the tv.

 

Hank downs a few extra shots of whiskey on the night they try to get intimate for the first time, _for courage_ , he laughs as he re-fills his glass, _because it’s been a while,_ and things go downhill fast once they decide to take things into the bedroom.

 

Their shirts lie in a heap somewhere on the floor and Connor grinds against Hank’s thigh, his internal cooling system kicking into high gear as he feels several sensors and biocomponents activate for the first time. He’s wanted this for weeks now, constructing this very scene in his head almost every night he’s spent in Hank’s bed, listening to his soft snores.

 

He’s already losing himself in the different sensations, the feel of Hank’s solid mass against his chassis, the salt of his skin on his tongue, and he doesn’t notice something is wrong until Hank is grabbing his wrist.

 

He pulls Connor’s hand out of his boxers and yanks back from their kiss. “Fuck…”

 

“H-Hank?” Connor sounds startled even to his own ears. “What’s wrong?” Hank doesn’t answer, and Connor’s LED blinks to yellow when he lets his eyes wander down his body, aware that his caresses haven’t resulted in the desired reaction in Hank.

 

Connor sits up and stares at his hand, his brow creasing. “Am I… Am I doing something wrong? I haven’t done this before, so I apologize if I-”

 

“ _No_. No, Connor, it’s not you,” Hank groans, shielding his eyes with his arm, refusing to look Connor in the eye. He lets out a strained breath and the mattress bounces as he turns to lie on his side, offering Connor the sight of his naked back. “It’s the fucking booze and my decrepit old body that’s the problem here.”

 

Connor wants to argue, because, “According to statistics, men your age-“

 

“Connor!” Hank shoots Connor a frustrated glare over his shoulder, his cheeks blotchy even in the dim light. “I know you mean well, but don’t you dare give me a single statistic about my age or my dick right now.”

 

Connor’s LED shifts to red as he observes Hank’s body language, the way he’s shutting Connor out. “I’m sorry,” he says, but the apology seems to cause another spike in Hank’s anger.

 

“Connor, no, don’t apologize,” Hank sighs, the broad slope of his shoulders shifting as he lets out frustrated exhale. He rolls around and reaches up to comb his fingers through the messy tuft of Connor’s cowlick. “This isn’t your fault, ok?” Hank withdraws his hand and drags his palm across his face, pulling the covers up to his chin. “Can we just… go to sleep?”

 

Connor doesn’t want to sleep. His sensors are still highly sensitive and his tongue is wet with a thick coat of analysis fluid, ready for a sample. He’s about to suggest Hank another form of intimacy, one that doesn’t require Hank to have an erection, but there’s a click as Hank turns the light off and the room falls into darkness.

 

Hank’s breaths grow heavy with sleep, but Connor’s LED continues to alter between yellow and red as he replays the events of the night in his head. Finding no flaws in the execution of his own actions, he climbs out of bed and goes to Hank’s bookshelf, pulling out one of the cheap romance novels to see if the heroine of the story fares any better in her romantic escapades.

 

 

* * *

 

 

December is cold and overcast, but at least the ugly mess of muddy paw prints and overgrown grass in Hank’s backyard gets buried under a blanket of snow. Connor sits in an old plastic lawn chair and watches Sumo plow the pristine snow with his muzzle, the occasional loud snort indicating that he’s found something interesting.

 

The neighborhood’s been quiet since the events of November, but people are slowly trickling back as more bills are forced through in Washington. Connor stands up and wades through the ankle-deep snow to peek over the fence that separates Hank’s yard from the Peterson house, aware that the family of five returned a few days ago.

 

There’s a string of colorful lights spun around the porch railing and a couple of holographic reindeer pulling a sleigh next to the driveway. Some might call it kitschy, but Connor likes the spot of color in the otherwise bleak neighborhood. He knows there’s a box labelled as _XMAS LIGHTS_ in the cardboard chaos that is Hank’s garage and he points it out to Hank later that day, suggesting they hang them up like the Petersons.

 

“Do whatever you want. I don’t give a shit.”

 

The apathy in Hank’s voice reminds Connor of the early days of their professional relationship, and he struggles to ignore the odd strain Hank’s words conjure somewhere behind his voice modulator.

 

Connor decides to forget the box of lights and he follows Hank into the Oldsmobile as they head out for their Saturday night supermarket run. He doesn’t feel the cold, but he knows the temperatures are well below freezing and Hank smacks the steering wheel, spitting out a litany of colorful curses as the car struggles to start. Connor could tell Hank all about the benefits of upgrading to a newer model, but he knows Hank isn’t open to the idea of smart cars, even less so when he’s in a sour mood like today.

 

The supermarket is as much of a ghost town as the city itself and logistics are at a stand-still with most of the android employees gone.

 

“There are seventeen percent less empty shelves this week,” Connor says, trying to sound optimistic as Hank glares at the _“out of stock”_ sign plastered over the price tag on Sumo’s preferred brand of kibble.

 

“Tell that to Sumo...” Hank grouses, glaring at the people down the aisle fighting over the last organic turkey.

 

Connor fills their cart while Hank plods along and continues to complain about the empty shelves and the hiked up prices. Connor tunes him out after a while and it takes him a moment to notice Hank’s disappeared, along with the cart.

 

He returns seven minutes later and Connor’s LED turns red when he spots several products that weren’t on the list: three cases of beer and two bottles of Black Lamb, in addition to the half-empty one that’s already in the kitchen cupboard.

 

Hank’s eyes zero in on Connor’s LED and the look on his face grows visibly defensive. “Whatever you’re about to say, don’t.”

 

Connor’s nose wrinkles as he watches Hank push the cart towards the checkout and the familiar strain in his throat reappears, moving down like a physical thing inside his chassis, wrapping around his Thirium pump.

 

  


* * *

 

  


Hank’s mood continues to plummet as the holidays draw closer, and Connor knows two of the three Black Lambs are already gone. He stands by the liquor cabinet and considers pouring the last one down the drain, but his pre-constructions of the outcome make him hesitate. He closes the cabinet and observes Hank through the divider, the way he stares at the game on the tv, but doesn’t even flinch when the opponent shoots the ball through the hoop.

 

Connor’s fairly certain he knows the reason behind Hank’s increasingly self-destructive behavior, the pre-installed information packets on human psychology in his interrogation software telling him humans are more susceptible to depressive moods around this time of year than during any other occasion. They haven’t talked about Cole since the confrontation in the CyberLife Tower, but Connor suspects the same applies to Hank, who’s spent the last three holiday seasons alone, robbed of whatever routines he used to have when his boy was still alive.

 

Connor joins Hank on the couch and reaches out to tuck a few gray strands behind his ear. The untrimmed whiskers of his beard tickle Connor’s palm, but he makes no mention of Hank’s unkempt appearance, glad to keep him away from a razor until he sobers up.

 

“Did I tell you that I received an invitation to join Markus at his new home for dinner on Christmas Day? He and his companions are celebrating the progress New Jericho has made in recent weeks. Would you like us to go?”

 

Hank doesn’t avert his gaze from the tv, but the lines on his forehead grow deeper as his brows pull into a scowl. “Why the hell would they want an old drunk like me to ruin their happy get-together?” He pours what’s left in his glass of Black Lamb down his throat and wipes the drops that spill into his beard with the frayed cuff of his sleeve. “Besides, I’m human. Most androids can’t stand the sight of us. Trust me, your friends don’t want me there.”

 

“You’re _my_ human,” Connor says, surging forward to grab the empty glass from Hank’s hand. “And _I_ _do_ want you there.”

 

The expression on Hank’s face softens, but his smile is still self-deprecating. “Lord only knows why…” His tongue is heavy in his mouth, and Connor flicks his finger over the rim of the glass and brings it to his mouth for a quick scan of Hank’s blood alcohol level. It’s barely 4pm, but another glass will render him incapable of driving.

 

Connor withdraws into his mind palace to gather his thoughts as he decides it’s finally time to make an attempt at a conversation he knows they’re forced to have sooner or later. He tugs on his cuff and adjusts his voice modulator until he finds a suitably empathetic tone.

 

“Hank, I’ve noticed your mood has been low for a while now.” Connor doesn’t miss the sudden increase in Hank’s stress level, or the red spots that bloom on his cheeks, but he pushes on. “I’m not a professional in the field of mental health issues, but would you like to talk about what’s bothering you? I could also refer you to one of the support groups in the area if you’d prefer a more anonymous approach.”

 

Hank blinks at him, visibly stunned. “Jesus Christ, Connor.” He shakes his head and buries his face in his palms. “Fuck, I need another drink…”

 

Connor replays his own words in his head and he cringes when he realizes he’d fallen back on his familiar pre-existing social interaction protocols. He empties his mind and tries again. “I’m sorry, Hank, I just… I think it would be good for you if you told me where all these negative feelings you’re having are coming from. I-I know you lost Cole close to Christmas time so it must be hard to-”

 

Hank squeezes at his knees, his knuckles white as he breathes hard through his nose. “Ok, now I really need that drink.”

 

“Please, Hank, you really don’t,” Connor says, a hint of panic creeping into his voice. “We should talk about this.”

 

Hank shoots Connor a peeved look, his jaw squared and the line of his shoulders tight with tension. “Yeah, well, I don’t wanna talk. I want a damned drink.” He attempts to grab the empty whiskey glass from Connor’s hand and stares, slack-jawed, when Connor holds it out of his reach. “What the fuck, Connor?”

 

“You don’t need another drink, Hank,” Connor repeats, this time a little more forceful. He follows Hank’s gaze to the liquor cabinet, able to guess his train of thought, and he withdraws into his mind palace to pre-construct potential outcomes for the next thirty seconds.

 

**Allow Hank to reach the alcohol first → Situation escalates, potential harm to Hank**

**Prevent Hank from getting up → Situation escalates, potential harm to Hank and/or furniture**

**Get to kitchen before Hank → Get rid of the alcohol → Situation escalates**

 

Connor is on his feet before he’s even had time to process what he’s about to do. He rushes into the kitchen and grabs the remaining bottle of Black Lamb from the cabinet, hoping he’s picked the least damaging approach.

 

“Connor, don’t you dare,” Hank growls, getting up on his feet, his tall frame swaying a little before he finds his balance.

 

Connor registers Sumo’s shaggy form disappear into the bedroom as Hank strides across the room. He doesn’t need his pre-constructions to know that Hank’s reaction will be negative, but there’s a challenge in his eyes as he unscrews the cork and tips the bottle over the sink.

 

“Fucking hell.” It’s not a shout or even that angry, just an exhale of air that seems to escape Hank’s lungs as he watches Connor empty his whiskey down the drain.

 

Connor holds his gaze, the steady slosh of amber liquid against stainless steel the only sound in the room. His expression matrix remains completely neutral until he sees Hank spin around on his heels and head for the front door.

 

Connor’s LED spins straight to red as he watches Hank grab his coat and car keys. “Hank?” He sets the empty bottle on the counter and follows Hank to the door, a sudden spike of fear overriding everything else. “Where are you going?”

 

Hank is out of the house before Connor can reach him, and there’s a loud bang from the car door, followed by screeching tires as Hank drives away.

 

Connor’s fingers flex and unflex against his palm as he stands in the empty living room, his internal fans whirring a little louder than usual in the silence Hank’s departure has left in the house.

 

“Shit.”

 

Connor steps away from the door and sits stiffly in the recliner. He stares at the tv screen, not really processing any of the broadcast as he attempts to identify the jumble of emotions he’s registering in his software. Anger? Mildly. Regret? Surprisingly little. Shock and/or uncertainty? Moderately.

 

Sumo returns from the bedroom after a while, his tail drooping between his legs. He rests his massive head against Connor’s knees and licks at his own nose. Connor takes note of the slight tremble in his fingers and hurries to bury them in Sumo’s soft fur, the action a suitable replacement for his coin. “It’s going to be ok, Sumo,” he says, nodding stiffly, aware that it isn’t Sumo he’s trying to convince.

 

The afternoon wears on and Connor finally gets up when Sumo begins to whine at the door, asking to be let into the backyard. Connor stands on the porch and watches the dog leave another yellow spot in the snow next to the fence. He takes Sumo back in and fills his food bowl with automated moves, his LED stuck on yellow as he eyes the traces of whiskey on the bottom of the sink.

 

He stands in the middle of the kitchen, his eyes fixed on a stain in the wall as he analyzes his actions, his mind flooding with dozens of potential outcomes. Was there a better approach he could have chosen? A more empathetic way to voice his concerns?

 

He stops when his internal clock tells him it’s been five hours, thirty-seven minutes and ten seconds since Hank walked out of the house. There’s a twenty-four hour convenience store next to a gas station on the outskirts of the neighborhood, but it’s been closed for the past month due to extensive renovations after the Revolution, and there’s only a thirty-five percent probability that Hank would go to the Ultramart they visit on the weekends.

 

Connor’s eyes flick to a matchbox in the bowl of assorted junk next to an unopened pack of cigarettes. He’s never seen Hank smoke, which means he must have quit the habit, but the box of matches offers a clue to his potential whereabouts, and Connor’s LED does a rapid spin as he dials the number of a familiar establishment.

 

The line rings for a while and there’s a lot of background noise when someone finally picks up.

 

“Jimmy’s bar, you got Jimmy on the line.”

 

“My name is Connor,” _the android sent by CyberLife_ is on the tip of his tongue, but Connor swallows down his default introduction, remembering the “ _No androids_ ” sign on the door of the bar.

 

“What can I do for you, Connor?” Jimmy asks, his voice drowning under the melodic notes of an old-school country rock song.

 

“I’m trying to locate the current whereabouts of Lieutenant Hank Anderson and I have reason to believe he may have headed into your establishment.”

 

There’s a moment of silence, followed by a snort of laughter from Jimmy. “Oh, you’re _the_ Connor.”

 

Connor’s brows knit together at the strange remark. “Yes, I’m his… partner.”

 

“Uhhuh. And you wanna know if I’ve seen Hank tonight.”

 

“Correct.” Connor nods at his reflection in the window.

 

“He was here, alright,” Jimmy huffs into the receiver. “I put him in a taxi about fifteen minutes ago.”

 

Connor spins on his heels when Sumo lets out a deep boof at the beam of headlights that slice across the living room through the shades in the window.

 

“Thank you, Jimmy, your actions are appreciated.” Connor ends the call and opens the front door, observing the self-driving taxi that’s parked on the side of the road. There’s no movement inside and the doors remain closed even as a friendly-sounding AI announces the car’s arrival to its destination.

 

Connor pushes his feet into Hank’s massive snow boots and hurries across the front yard in an awkward waddle. He peeks in through the rear window, a contradictory mix of relief and worry snapping in his gut like a livewire when he spots Hank, passed out in the backseat. He climbs into the taxi and does a quick scan of Hank’s vitals, the worry he felt easing its grip when he concludes that Hank is unharmed, save for the state of alcohol-induced oblivion.

 

Connor gives Hank a light slap on the cheek. “Hank?”

 

The air in Hank’s lungs escapes in a snort as he stirs and regains consciousness. “Wha-? Connor?”

 

“Yes, I’m here,” Connor nods, brushing Hank’s hair away from his face with gentle hands.

 

The sensors in his nose register an acrid smell that seems to fill the entire interior of the car. He looks down and locates the source on the floor and all over Hank’s shoes. Connor reaches between the seats to press a button on the front panel, and the same pleasant female voice announces “ _cleaning required, the vehicle is not in service_ , _please exit the vehicle._ ”

 

Hank pinches the bridge of his nose, a groan rolling up his chest. “Connor, I’m sorry, I… Fuck.”

 

“It’s ok, Hank. Come on, I’ll help you out.”

 

Hank’s motor skills are heavily impaired, his movements fumbling and sluggish as he hangs onto Connor’s shoulders, but Connor manages to pull him out of the car in one piece.

 

“Fuck…” Hank grunts, his height and heavy bulk sending a jolt through Connor’s titanium frame as he sways against his chest. “‘m gon’ be sick.”

 

Hank doubles over and Connor hurries to wrap his arms around his waist, keeping him upright as he empties his guts in the snowbank. He turns his nasal sensors off as Hank continues to cough and sputter, the contents of his stomach steaming in the cold air.

 

“Do you think that was all of it?” Connor asks, rubbing his palm up and down the length of Hank’s hunched back. “We should get you inside.”

 

“Yeah, okay,” Hank nods, wiping his beard clean with the back of his hand.

 

Sumo looks up from his bed by the window when they come inside, but he keeps his distance as Connor drags Hank towards the bathroom.

 

Connor shuts the door and closes the lid on the toilet, helping Hank to take a seat on it. “You’re quite a sorry sight, Lieutenant,” he sighs, kneeling down to unlace Hank’s soiled boots, but there’s no judgement in his voice.

 

“Connor…” Hank pants, his upper body swaying against the water tank. “I shouldn’t have- I’m sorry I… ah fuck, I’m just sorry, ok?”

 

Connor looks up, but Hank struggles to meet his eyes, the gaze in them unfocused. His hair hangs limply over his face and Connor reaches up to brush it aside. “I’m just glad you’re home, Hank.”

 

Connor doesn’t miss the quiet sniff or the way Hank struggles to clear his throat as Connor helps him out of the rest of his clothes. He lets Connor walk him into the bathtub and lets out a content groan as the warm water showers down on his back and shoulders.

 

The tub fills slowly and Connor pours in what’s left in the bottle of Hank’s body wash. He grabs a clean washcloth from the small cupboard next to the sink and kneels down to wet it in the foaming water.

 

Hank keeps his gaze on his own knees as Connor runs the cloth over the swell of his bicep, and they’re quiet for a long time, the patter of running water filling in the silence between them. Connor continues to run the cloth over the lines of ink spread across Hank’s chest, his bottom lip caught between his teeth as he studies the design.

 

He likes the sight of Hank’s body, so human and fascinating in all its imperfections, fragile but strong, and much more capable than Hank allows himself to believe. As if on cue, Hank lets out a humourless laugh, filled with self-loathing.

 

“Look at me, getting bathed like a fucking baby.”

 

Connor tilts his head to the side and his hand on Hank’s chest falters as his LED circles to yellow. “There were traces of vomit on your-”

 

“Yeah. Because I’m a pathetic old drunk,” Hank interrupts. He grabs a hold of Connor’s hand and there’s something desperate in his eyes. “I’m sorry, Connor. You should be out there, getting new experiences and living your life, not wasting your time with me.”

 

Connor pulls his hand out of Hank’s grip and cups the back of his neck. He leans in and presses his nose against Hank’s cheek, the circle on his temple a calm blue. “I’m _exactly_ where I want to be, Hank. You can’t drive me away.” The washcloth floats to the bottom of the tub and Connor rests his hand on the curve of Hank’s stomach. “There’s nowhere else I’d rather be, okay?”

 

Hank’s shoulders sag, and whatever argument he had left in him leaves with the breath he exhales into the air between them. He blinks at Connor, the corner of his mouth climbing up in a relieved little smile. “Okay.”

 

  


* * *

 

  


Connor wonders if he’s over-timed his stasis the next morning when he finds Hank in the kitchen, making a racket as he dumps empty bottles into a large trash bag. He hauls it over his shoulder and both Connor and Sumo watch him from the door as he carries it to the side of the road.

 

Hank wipes his hands on the front of his old sweatshirt and there’s quiet resolve in his eyes as he walks back to the house. “I’m quitting,” he announces.

 

“Cold turkey?” Connor asks, unable to hide the hint of alarm that slips into his voice.

 

“Yep. Cold turkey.”

 

“Hank... Are you sure that’s a good idea? With your history of alcohol consumption the withdrawal period could become extremely uncomfortable.”

 

The brief flash of anguish on Hank’s face tells Connor this isn’t his first attempt at reaching sobriety, but his resolve remains unwavering as he takes Connor’s hands in his own. “If I don’t do this now, I don’t know what’ll become of us, Connor. I have to see if I can be something better, for myself and for you.”

 

Connor has no intention of walking away from Hank, whether he succeeds or not, but the uneasy sensation he’s been registering for weeks eases its hold at Hank’s words. “I’ll be with you all the way through.”

  


The rest of the day passes in relative peace, but Connor can tell Hank is starting to suffer the consequences of last night’s drinking as he becomes more and more worn, the rush of adrenaline-fueled determination he experienced in the morning fading away. He spends most of the afternoon sleeping away his hangover with his head in Connor’s lap while Connor entertains himself with daytime tv and a crossword app on Hank’s tablet.

 

He notes that Hank has some trouble walking when he helps him to bed a few hours later, and his pulse is elevated even as he settles against the mound of pillows Connor has fluffed up for him.

 

“I don’t think I’ve been this out of breath since I was crazy enough to run 10K for some charity Fowler had us all participate in back in -29,” Hank pants, clutching at his chest.

 

“You’re gonna be fine, Hank,” Connor says, climbing into bed and inviting Hank to rest his head on his shoulder.

 

Hank is trembling, mild muscle spasms that started late in the afternoon, and Connor presses his palm against Hank’s neck, letting the synthetic skin over his chassis peel off down to his wrist. He knows they’ll never share the kind of connection he might experience with another android, but he hopes that being as close as they can be will grant Hank some comfort tonight.

 

Connor has clocked less than two hours of stasis when his systems suddenly boot up due to an external disturbance. He activates his night vision when he realizes the mattress under his back is shaking, and he focuses his attention on Hank, who trembles with visible muscle contractions, his breaths coming out in short, shallow bursts.

 

Connor understands the physiological aspect of a nightmare and he lowers his hand to Hank’s arm. “Hank, wake up.”

 

Hank jolts and lets out a pained groan, but remains trapped in his dream.

 

Connor sinks his fingers into the soft layer of fat on Hank’s bicep and gives him a proper jostle. “ _Hank_.”

 

Hank’s breathing slows down, but his body continues to shake even as he opens his eyes and blinks at the darkness. Connor hurries to turn on the lamp on the nightstand and holds his palm over Hank’s eyes, giving his pupils a moment to adjust.

 

“Connor?” His name comes out in a parched croak and Hank stares at him with a haunted look on his face.

 

“Are you ok? I think you were having a nightmare.”

 

“Yeah… I knew they’d come back once I quit, but Jesus, that was a bad one.” Hank blows out a trembling breath and brings his hand up to wipe at his brow.

 

“Do you want to talk about it?”

 

Hank ignores Connor’s question and throws the duvet aside as he sits up, his feet landing on the carpet with a soft thud. “Fuck, I’m sweating like a pig.” He pulls his shirt over his head and sucks in a pained breath through his teeth, throwing Connor a pleading look over his shoulder. “Could you get me something for this damn headache? I feel like my temples are about to split open.”

 

Connor suspects that regular over-the-counter pain medication is unlikely to bring Hank any relief, but he nods and climbs out of bed to make a quick trip to the kitchen.

 

Sumo whines at him from his nest of blankets and Connor pauses to give his head a comforting rub. “It’s okay, Sumo. I’ll take care of Hank for you, I promise.”

 

Hank is eyeing the human-shaped stain of sweat on the sheets when Connor returns with a glass of water and a bottle of Advil.

 

“We’ll have to burn most of our sheets if I ever get through this…”

 

“You will,” Connor says firmly, but Hank doesn’t look convinced as he takes the Advil from Connor and pops the lid open, the pills inside rattling against the plastic.

 

“Fucking shakes… I didn’t think they’d start so fast.”

 

Connor gives Hank a weak smile and watches him pop three pills into his mouth. Hank tries to take the glass of water Connor is offering, but the tremble in his hands is so severe that the water spills down his knuckles.

 

“Shit.” Hank exhales a frustrated groan and Connor presses his palm against Hank’s knuckles to help him take a sip and swallow his pills.

 

He goes through the drawer until he finds Hank a fresh t-shirt and helps him slip into it. “Do you think you can stay on your feet long enough for me to change the sheets?”

 

Hank grunts and holds out his arm so Connor can pull him up. He stands by the window and rests his head against the cool glass as Connor rushes to the linen closet for a fresh set of sheets.

 

He does a quick job of fixing the bed, scanning Hank’s vitals while he works, and he doesn’t have to be an expert in human expressions to know that Hank looks anxious as he stares at his trembling hands. His blood pressure and heart rate are elevated, but not so much that they’d have to consider a trip to the ER.

 

Connor tucks the final corner of the sheet under the mattress and leads Hank back to bed. He settles against Hank’s flank and rubs his palm over his rapidly rising chest. “I’ll watch over you, Hank.”

 

Hank continues to shake against Connor’s chassis, his hairline wet with sweat, and Connor watches him slip into another nightmare in the still quiet between midnight and 1AM.

 

Something inside his chest aches at the sight of Hank’s pain, like there’s a physical crack in his chassis, and he’s tempted to check himself for fracture lines even as the logical part of his mind understands that the sensation isn’t physical.

 

And empathy, Connor finds, is still a lot to process.

 

  


* * *

 

  


Androids don’t experience time like humans do, able to stretch a single second into a small eternity, but the next forty-eight hours feel longer than any prior moment in Connor’s life since his activation.

 

Hank has slid into proper insomnia and his waking hours are full of personal demons and delirious visions. Connor skips his daily stasis to watch Hank’s vitals as he tosses and turns in their bed, a few hours of shallow sleep all his body will grant him.

 

“Fuck, I don’t think I’m gonna make it… I feel like my heart’s about to hammer right through my ribs,” Hank groans as Connor holds up his head to help him swallow some water.

 

He sees Hank’s pulse and blood pressure are through the roof, the anxiety that comes with the withdrawals adding to his stress. Connor dabs at his face with a cool cloth and brushes his thumb against a spot where a few capillaries have burst as a result of the violent vomiting Hank did throughout the night. “Are you sure you don’t want me to take you to the ER? They have medication that could relieve some of your symptoms.”

 

Hank waves a trembling hand at the suggestion. “Hell no. Those poor overworked bastards have better things to do than waste their time on an old drunk’s self-inflicted shakes and aches.”

 

Connor wants to tell Hank that his pain isn’t any less important, no matter what the cause, but the chances of Hank believing him are low. He looks up as his right audio processor registers movement in the hallway, and Sumo pokes his head in through the gap in the doorway, his droopy eyes pleading.

 

“Will you be okay if I take Sumo for a short walk around the block?”

 

Hank doesn’t respond and his eyes are wide as he stares at the wallpaper behind Connor’s back, his pulse climbing. Connor glances over his shoulder, wondering what it is that Hank sees there.

 

“Hank?” Connor snaps his fingers in front of Hank’s face. “I need to take Sumo for a walk.”

 

Hank blinks at him, coming back to his senses. “What?”

 

“Sumo needs to-”

 

“Yeah, yeah, sure. Don’t want the poor pooch to pee on the floor because his owner is a sack of shit.”

 

“Hank, you know that’s not true...”

 

Hank grunts and tugs the duvet up to his chin. “Go on, I’ll try to get some shut-eye while you’re away.”

 

Connor takes Sumo around the block and his sensors keep him from stumbling into things, but his conscious mind is deep in the confines of his mind palace as he replays data from the past couple of days. It’s true that Hank’s current pain is self-inflicted, something he did willingly and fully aware of the risks, but the knowledge doesn’t make it any easier to witness.

 

Connor knows Hank drank to numb the pain of losing Cole, but it’s hard for him to understand why Hank would choose alcohol over professional help. Was it pride or something else that kept Hank reaching for a bottle instead of another human being?

 

“I have to admit that humans are much more complicated than anything in my programming ever led me to believe,” Connor says to Sumo, who lifts his nose from the slushy snow and snorts in agreement.

 

  


* * *

 

  


Hank’s symptoms aren’t much better on day four of his personal nightmare. Connor moves him to the couch to allow the mattress to dry up a little as he shoves another load of laundry into the machine in the garage, but even the tv and Sumo’s comforting presence at his feet don’t seem to improve Hank’s mood.

 

“Do you want me to make you something to eat?” Connor asks as he re-emerges from the garage, aware that Hank has lost almost seven pounds to his withdrawals. “Maybe soup or some scrambled eggs?”

 

“Sure, if you want me to throw up all over the living room carpet,” Hank grumbles, his tone dripping with tired sarcasm.

 

“What about a drink?” Connor continues, ignoring Hank’s ill temper. “Can I get you one?” He regrets the question the moment he hears Hank’s incredulous bark of laughter.

 

“There’s nothing I want more than a fucking drink, Connor,” Hank spits. “I’d sell my soul for a bottle of Black Lamb just to get rid of these damn shakes and the fucking nightmares.”

 

Connor takes a seat on the couch, settling Hank’s socked feet over his thighs. He gives Hank’s big toe a squeeze and rubs at his ankle. “I’m sorry, Hank, but you know you can’t have one.”

 

The scowl on Hank’s face lifs and he rests his trembling fingers against Connor’s forearm. “I know, Connor, I know. Shit, I’m sorry.” His voice is rough from vomiting, but there’s something soft in his eyes for the first time in days. “I hope you know I don’t mean most of the shit that comes out of my mouth.”

 

Connor rubs Hank’s shin through his pair of long-johns, the apology unnecessary but somehow reassuring. “I know, Hank.”

 

He watches over Hank’s fitful sleep, fiddling with the frayed sash of his bathrobe as he and Sumo both listen to an interview from Markus on Capitol Hill. Things are moving slower than most androids and humans would like, but the majority of people already recognize androids as sentient beings, and Connor thinks Markus’ skills in diplomacy will bear fruit soon.

 

He’s startled from his thoughts when Hank jolts awake, his feet kicking against Connor’s thighs.

 

“What’s that sound?” Hank gasps, and the alarm Connor hears in his voice sends his LED straight to red.

 

“What sound?” Connor asks, increasing the volume on his audio processors.

 

Hank clutches his chest as his eyes dart around the living room. “That racket! It sounds like it’s raining cats and dogs!”

 

Connor follows Hank’s gaze to the ceiling, but he’s convinced there are no sounds coming from outside. There isn’t even any traffic on the road. He spins around to look at the door at the end of the hallway, left ajar so he can keep an eye on the laundry. “Do you mean the noise from the washing machine?”

 

Hank’s pulse begins to slow down, but the look on his face remains unsettled. “Jesus Christ… I feel like I’m going crazy.”

 

The machine rattles against the concrete wall, but the noise isn’t that loud, and Connor’s LED spins back to blue when he realizes Hank is experiencing auditory hallucinations.

 

“You’re not going crazy, Hank, you’re just becoming sober.”

 

Hank squeezes at the bridge of his nose and deflates against the pillows. “If you say so.”

 

They both look down at the loud rumble that seems to originate from Hank’s stomach. Connor arches his brow, his cheek dimpling. “Ready for those scrambled eggs yet?”

 

Hank lets out a tired laugh, the first one in days. “Yeah, I could probably give them a shot.”

 

  


* * *

 

  


The nightmares persist, and Hank never talks about them when Connor pulls him out of them, but he starts to get on his feet for more than a shuffle between the bedroom and the bathroom, and Connor hopes the worst is over.

 

He’s settled on the couch, taking apart an old alarm clock he found in a box in the garage, curious to see what makes it tick, when the rustle of Hank’s coat behind his back catches his attention. Connor looks up from his project and glances over his shoulder. “Are we heading out?”

 

“I thought I’d walk around the block with Sumo, but you can keep tinkering.” Hank pulls on his parka and grabs Sumo’s leash from the coat rack. “I’ve been going a little crazy counting the patterns on our bedroom wall, so I figure some fresh air probably won’t kill me.”

 

Hank gives the leash a little jiggle and Sumo comes pounding in from the kitchen at the familiar sound, his heavy tail going thump-thump-thump against Hank’s legs as he waits for him to pull on his boots.

 

“Promise me you’ll call if you need me,” Connor says, doing a subtle scan of Hank’s vitals to make sure he’s up for a walk.

 

“Yes, sir,” Hank snorts, throwing Connor a salute with his fingers.

 

Connor doesn’t get the reference, but the sarcastic tone tells him Hank is joking.

 

He turns his attention back on the clock, pushing his fingers in through the back panel to try and interface with it, but the circuits inside are too primitive for a connection, and Connor abandons his project.

 

He allows his eyes to close as he powers down for a moment in stasis, just enough to make sure that everything is still running smoothly after days without downtime.

 

Connor blinks his eyes open twenty-six minutes later when he hears Sumo’s deep barks in the backyard. He moves to the kitchen window and leans his palms against the counter to watch Hank mould a huge snowball in his hands. He flings it at Sumo, who launches his enormous body into the air and catches half of the ball in his slobbering jaws, grunting happily.

 

Connor doesn’t even realize he’s smiling until he sees his own reflection in the window. He traces his mouth with his finger and he’s surprised to find a trail of ocular lubricant running down his cheek as he watches Hank throw Sumo another ball. Connor catches the errant drop with his finger and licks it into his mouth, his temple glowing a soft yellow as he analyzes the novel reaction.

 

_Relief._

 

Connor watches Hank and Sumo disappear behind the house and he wipes at his cheek when he hears the front door open.

 

“Come on, you dumb mutt, stay still and let me dry you off!” Hank yells, grabbing for Sumo’s towel in the coat rack. “No, Sumo... Don’t you dare shake that mess all over me!”

 

Connor laughs out loud at that, but his joy is short-lived as Sumo barges into the house, his nails clicking against the floor as he pounds into the kitchen.

 

A muffled _oof_ is all Connor gets out as Sumo stands up and plants his massive paws against Connor’s chest. He slumps against the counter and tries to shield his face from Sumo’s enthusiastic licks, the front of his shirt already covered in spots of drool and wet dog hair.

 

“Alright, Sumo, down!” Hank orders, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he steps into the kitchen.

 

Sumo settles down and makes a beeline for his water bowl, lapping loudly before making a few circles around his favorite spot by the heater and slumping down.

 

Hank walks up to Connor and pulls him into his arms by the front of his wrinkled dress shirt. His eyes are tired, the bags underneath them heavy from lack of sleep, but the gaze in them is fond as he lets it wander over Connor’s face.

 

“Hey.”

 

“Hello, Hank.”

 

Hank laughs softly at Connor’s response, his lips and whiskers a little cold as he leans down to drop a kiss to Connor’s brow. The tremble in his hands is still an issue, and Connor feels it against his cheeks as Hank cups his face. “Sorry, they just kinda… do that,” Hank sighs.

 

Connor lifts his own hands and presses his palms against Hank’s knuckles to steady the shakes.

 

“I must be the luckiest son of a bitch in this whole crazy town,” Hank says, brushing the pad of his thumb against one of the freckles in Connor’s synthetic skin and bending down to kiss him.

 

  


* * *

 

  


Hank gets a call from Fowler two nights before Christmas Eve, and Connor listens to him pace around the living room as he stirs the sauce he’s preparing for the chicken in the oven, taking note of the way Hank’s tone grows considerably less tense as the call goes on.

 

When he finally hangs up, Hank pulls Connor flush against his chest and rests his chin against Connor’s shoulder. “So that was Jeffrey on the phone.”

 

“Good news?” Connor asks. He dips his finger into the sauce and offers it to Hank for a taste.

 

Hank flicks his tongue out and grunts his approval at the flavor. “Shit that’s good. Anyway, looks like I’m going back to homicide after New Year’s. That fucker Perkins didn’t have a lot of say after his epic fuck up at Hart Plaza.”

 

Connor can tell Hank is pleased, the smug edge in his voice easy to read, and thinking back to the condescending attitude special agent Perkins showed not only to Connor, but to _Hank_ , well, Connor might just share Hank’s glee.

 

He lifts the pot off the burner and turns around in Hank’s arms, smoothing his palms over his stomach. “I’m really happy for you, Hank. Going back to work will be good for you, and it would have been a major setback for the police department if they’d lost a veteran Lieutenant with your years of experience.”

 

Hank scratches his jaw and tilts his head down, watching Connor from the shadow of his brow. “I know you can’t apply for an official position at the DPD until they pass some of those new laws, but I swear we’re going back to being partners the moment it’s possible.”

 

Connor stands up on his toes and snakes his arms around Hank’s neck, his mouth settling into smile number seven, _mischievous/seductive_ . “I thought we already _are_ partners.”

 

Hank snorts and reaches down to squeeze Connor’s flank, but whoever designed him didn’t give him much to hold on to. “Yeah, well, I’m talking the kind of partners where I stumble around a crime scene while you do all that fancy investigating and evidence-licking.”

 

“Ah, I see the difference, though should I remind you that I don’t have to be at a crime scene to take samples?” Connor grins.

 

Hank sputters at the teasing and Connor is thrilled to see he’s managed to get some color to his cheeks.

 

“I guess I’ll have to keep that in mind,” Hank murmurs, giving Connor’s butt a little smack before wandering to the living room.

 

Connor resumes his cooking while Hank settles down to watch a recording of one of the games he missed during the worst of his withdrawals. He observes the way Hank’s fingers twitch against the armrest every once in a while, grabbing for an invisible glass or a bottle even as his attention remains on the tv.

 

Evenings tend to be the hardest for him, the restless energy that fills the house something even Connor can sense. He has no doubt that Hank is strong in his resolve, but the countless articles and scientific studies he’s combed through in the past couple of weeks paint the same grim truth about addiction as a lifelong battle that doesn’t just disappear overnight.

 

Connor suspects there’ll be days when Hank will be tempted to relapse, and days when his fingers will itch for the gun in the safe, but he’ll no longer have to face those days alone.

 

They wish Sumo a good night shortly after dinner and Hank settles on his side of the bed to watch Connor perform his usual meticulous undressing ritual.

 

“We really gotta get you something else to wear. Those damn shirts of yours are so stiff that my skin feels itchy just looking at you.”

 

Connor tilts his head and holds his CyberLife-issued shirt in front of his face. “What else would I wear?”

 

“Anything. _Everything_. Hell, you could even grab something of mine from that drawer right now. Not that it’ll fit you, but anything’s better than looking like you’re about to sell me a Bible when we’re at home.”

 

Connor rolls his eyes as he hangs his shirt in the closet next to Hank’s own colorful collection of shirts. He’s sure he’ll never share Hank’s quirky taste in clothes, but he may have a point about the CyberLife uniform being a little too formal for the mundane things Connor does at home.

 

He holds up his finger and Hank shoots him a puzzled look when he heads for the door. “I’ll be right back.”

 

Connor slips into the garage, able to sense the cool temperature of the concrete floor against the bare soles of his feet even if the cold doesn’t cause him any discomfort. He makes his way to a pile of boxes near the workbench and opens the one he knows to be full of Hank’s old clothes.

 

He pulls on the first shirt that doesn’t have any holes or rips in the fabric, and traces his fingers over the faded print of a coarsely sketched cartoon he identifies as a ‘rage meme’. The shirt is a little loose around his shoulders, but Connor still struggles to construct a mental image of Hank at a size where he’d be able to fit into something so small.

 

Hank is still waiting for him in their bed when Connor returns, lying on his side with the covers kicked down to his knees, and his mouth falls almost comically wide as he takes in the sight of Connor in his old t-shirt. “Shit. I haven’t seen that since I was in college,” Hank says with a whistle.

 

“It’s a pretty good fit,” Connor observes, climbing into bed.

 

“Believe it or not, but I wasn’t always over two-hundred pounds of bad choices and depressive moods,” Hank snorts, tugging on the collar of the shirt.

 

Connor ignores the self-deprecating words and pushes Hank down on his back to kiss the line of his jaw. “I like you as you are, Hank.” He settles against Hank’s flank, content to rest his head on his chest and match his Thirium pump to the beat of Hank’s heart underneath his ear.

 

Connor knows it’ll be a while before Hank is able to perform anything intimate in the bedroom, and the fingers tracing the path of his spine down to his buttocks catch him a little off guard. Connor tilts his face up, a silent question in the arch of his brows.

 

Hank clears his throat and Connor catches the way his eyes dart to the side, a microexpression he’s been taught to hone in on since his activation.

 

Whatever Hank has in mind, it’s making him nervous.

 

“I can’t lie to you, Connor, it’s gonna be a while before anything below my navel is any use to you, but I know I left you hanging that night we were gonna… Well, you know. And I feel like a giant prick about it.”

 

Connor knows which night Hank is referring to and he reaches up to press his palm against Hank’s neck, the skin there a little clammy. “It’s okay, Hank, we can wait.”

 

“I know and I appreciate your saintly patience, Connor, but I’d still like to do something for you. Make you feel good?” Hank holds up his hand and Connor can guess what he’s offering when he wiggles his fingers.

 

He chews on his lip, a spontaneous action he knows is more at home on the face of one of the Tracis. “Okay, Hank.”

 

Hank’s brows climb up and he clears his throat. “Yeah? You want it?”

 

Connor grins. “I do. A lot...”

 

“Well, okay, then,” Hank chuckles. He settles Connor on his back and spends a moment fluffing the pillows under his head. “You comfy there?”

 

“Very comfy, Hank.”

 

Hank lies down on his side, tracing his fingers down the length of Connor’s neck. They watch each other in the soft lamplight, the heat of Hank’s touch sending small sparks all over Connor’s wiring. “The folks at CyberLife sure made you pretty,” Hank sighs, almost reverent.

 

Connor knows he can’t blush, but he preens at the compliment and the way Hank looks at him, like Connor really is the best thing he’s ever seen.

 

Hank strokes his fingers over the hollow between Connor’s clavicles and lets the caress travel down the flat plains of his stomach. “Is there anything specific you want me to do? Anything in you extra sensitive?”

 

Connor’s LED circles to yellow. “I have no previous experience,” Connor admits. “The majority of my time since activation has been spent in your company and we haven’t— I haven’t—”

 

“It’s okay, Connor,” Hank nods. “We’ll find out together.”

 

“Okay,” Connor nods, his LED spinning back to blue, Hank’s touch settling the mild error in his Thirium pump.

 

Hank takes a moment to observe him and something in his eyes seems to light up when he pauses at Connor’s half-parted lips. He lifts his hand and rests his thumb against Connor’s full bottom lip. “I’ve seen you lick enough evidence to know that this right here’s gotta be something special.” Hank applies a little pressure with his thumb until Connor parts his mouth and the finger slips inside, sliding against his tongue.

 

Connor’s eyes flicker and fall closed as he seals his lips around Hank’s thumb, the sensors on his tongue lighting up at the taste and the weight of it. “ _Oh._ ”

 

“I’m right, aren’t I?”

 

Connor moans and wraps his own fingers around Hanks wrist to add more pressure to his tongue, get Hank deeper.

 

“Fuck.” Hank’s voice has grown hoarse and that single word from his mouth somehow manages to activate the lubrication protocol in Connor’s biocomponent #8567a without his input. “Yeah, you like that, don’t you?”

 

Connor nods and flicks his tongue around Hank’s thumb, whining when Hank withdraws his hand a moment later. “ _Hank_.”

 

“It’s ok, I’m just getting these off you,” Hank chuckles, sitting up to help Connor out of the small shorts someone at CyberLife deemed necessary on him. Hank tugs them down Connor’s hips, just enough to have access to everything important. “There we go.”

 

Hank’s gaze lands between Connor’s thighs, and Connor knows he should have no concept of feeling self-conscious, but there’s another hitch in his pump regulator and his HUD gets a notification about an increase in his internal temperature.

 

“Hank… You’re staring.”

 

Hank nods but his eyes stay where they are, and Connor can tell the rhythm of his breathing has changed to something deeper, heavier. “I know, but _look at you_.”

 

Connor knows he was made a little smaller than average so even men who were not that well-endowed wouldn’t feel threatened by him. He stares at the pattern in the wallpaper and his fingers twitch against the mattress in a familiar pattern, knuckles desperate for a coin.

 

The heat of Hank’s hand against his half-hard length draws his eyes back down and he’s surprised to see Hank is smiling.

 

“You’re so pretty down here, too,” Hank murmurs, tracing his fingers up and down the length of Connor’s cock. He closes his hand around it and Connor gasps, the flow of Thirium between his legs increasing.

 

“What do you want, Connor?” Hank asks, voice gruff and a little teasing.

 

Connor doesn’t have to think about his answer. “I want your fingers.”

 

“Where do you want them?” Hank continues. “Here?” He slips two thick fingers into Connor’s mouth, the pressure on his tongue sending a jolt through Connor’s voice modulator. “Or down here?” Connor feels Hank reach between his thighs, parting them with his forearm as he traces the same fingers of the opposite hand against Connor’s hole. He slides them inside and Connor hears the hitch in Hank’s breath when he notices the slick. “You really are something special,” Hank says.

 

Connor watches him through his lashes, lids heavy as he continues to suckle on Hank’s fingers, and Hank repeats his question, pushing a little deeper to test the limits of Connor’s body. “Where should I touch you? Here? Or here?”

 

Connor’s answer comes straight from his voice box, his mouth too full to form words. “ _Both_.”

 

Hank arches his brows. “You sure you don’t want me to touch that pretty cock of yours? I only have two hands, Connor,” he grins, clearly enjoying his little game.

 

Connor kicks his shorts off and yanks on the collar of Hank’s t-shirt until they’re lying flush against each other. He throws his leg over the solid girth of Hank’s thigh and rocks up to it, satisfied with the amount of friction it grants him.

 

“Always knew you’re a bossy little thing,” Hank snorts.

 

Connor wraps both of his hands around Hank’s wrist and pulls his fingers out of his mouth to grin up at him. “Do you like it?”

 

“Hell yeah I do.”

 

Hank adds a third finger to Connor’s ass, and Connor feels his lips pull tight as he does the same for his mouth. He’s aware that there are extra sensors in the biocomponents between his thighs, but their design wasn’t solely for his own benefit.

 

It’s probably a flaw in his design and gross misuse of his analysis kit, but it’s the sensors in his mouth that drive Connor truly wild. His mouth overflows with analysis fluid, thick and viscous, as he takes Hank’s fingers deeper, his HUD filling with a steady stream of notifications about some of his systems nearing imminent shutdown.

 

Hank’s breaths are heavy in Connor’s ears, the swell of his stomach rising against Connor’s chest as he fucks him with his fingers, pushing him toward _something_. “Jesus… You’re really into this, aren’t you, Connor?”

 

Connor moans around Hank’s fingers and tightens his hold around his wrist to shove them in faster, more fluid spilling out from the corners of his mouth with every thrust. It wets the collar of his shirt and the fine hairs on his nape as it rolls down his neck, his throat contracting around little choked-off noises.

 

He knows all about the physiological phenomenon that is human orgasm, and he has no idea if androids, even in their deviancy, can experience something similar, but he ruts against Hank’s thigh, graceless in his need.

 

Hank slips one more finger into the wet mess between Connor’s ass and the sudden stretch sends a jolt straight to Connor’s cock. He feels it pulse against Hank’s thigh as something wet dribbles out, his circuits around it humming with a pleasant little electrical burst.

 

“There you go,” Hank murmurs when he feels Connor tremble in his arms. He continues to fuck Connor through his release, his fingers sliding through the warm, Thirium-based slick.

 

Connor is already starting to lose some of his secondary processes and he blinks when Hank decides to slot his pinky in with the rest of his fingers, barely able to move his hand as Connor’s lips stretch wide around his knuckles. The feeling of fullness catches Connor completely off guard, his systems suddenly in overdrive as the fluid dispensers in his cheeks begin to gush against Hank’s fingers.

 

“Connor, holy shit!”

 

Hank is sitting up, Connor can feel the mattress dip, but both his optical units appear to be malfunctioning and the only thing he can see are the error messages flooding his HUD. He’s aware that many of his systems are performing a soft reboot, but all Connor can focus on is the weight and taste of Hank’s fingers against his tongue, his teeth sinking into rough knuckles.

 

Hank tries to pull out and Connor lets out a garbled whine, his hands around Hank’s wrist tightening their hold.

 

Hank taps Connor’s arm. “Hey, hey, Connor, let go, you’re gonna break my bones if you squeeze any harder.”

 

Connor registers the alarm in Hank’s voice and immediately releases his hold, his mouth hanging open as Hank pulls his fingers out. He can feel more analysis fluid dribble down his chin and he doesn’t need his eyes to know that Hank is staring at him.

 

He hears Hank wipe his hands in the sheets before pressing them against Connor’s cheeks. “You okay, kid?” He dabs the hem of Connor’s shirt against the mess on his chin and snaps his fingers somewhere above his face. “Connor?”

 

“Yes, I’m fine, Hank.” Connor frowns when his voice comes out toneless, like he’s gone back to factory defaults. He forces the software in his modulator to reboot and tries again. “I’m fine, Hank, I just need to restart some of my processes.”

 

“Oh. Okay.” The sheets rustle as Hank settles back down, pulling Connor into his arms. “So… Does that mean you liked what we just did?”

 

Connor blinks at Hank, the vision in his right optical unit finally returning. He winds his arm around Hank’s waist and presses his cheek against his bicep, his smile a little dazed. “Yes, Hank, very much.”

 

He regains vision in his left eye a moment later, the rest of his systems not far behind. He doesn’t have to scan Hank to see that he’s aroused and he strokes his fingers down his flank, resting them on the soft layer of fat just below his navel. “Do you want me to pleasure you in return?”

 

Hank’s gaze drops down to his boxer shorts and he gives Connor a sheepish smile. Connor knows he’s half-hard, can feel the heat of him against his wrist, but Hank shakes his head and pulls Connor’s hand away, lacing their fingers together.

 

“Trust me, Connor, the show you just gave me was plenty enough for now,” Hank laughs, giving the loose locks of hair on Connor’s brow a gentle tug.

 

Connor wipes at his chin and tilts his face down to analyse the mess he’s made on Hank’s borrowed shirt, not to mention the bedding. “I think we need to change the sheets again.”

 

Hank grins, arching his brow at Connor. “You think?”

 

  


* * *

 

  


Connor has to do a twelve hour stasis after the strain he put on his systems and it’s mid-morning by the time he’s ready to come back online. Hank’s side of the bed is empty and the sheets are cool enough to tell Connor he’s been up for a while. His bathrobe hangs from the corner of the bathroom door and Connor sees one of his slippers in front of the sink, its pair no doubt somewhere in Sumo’s bed.

 

He gets up on his feet and pulls on a pair of Hank’s jogging pants from the closet, clean but a little musty with disuse. He wanders into the living room and blinks at his surroundings when he realizes the whole house is empty. There’s no note for him on the fridge door or the counter, and Connor is about to dial Hank’s phone when a sudden flash of light just outside the kitchen window catches his attention.

 

His eyebrows shoot up when his gaze lands on Hank’s bulky boots, balanced on a steel ladder a few feet left from the window. Sumo sits in the snow, his head tilted back as he watches Hank hang up what looks like a string of Christmas lights.

 

Connor hurries to the bathroom door and pulls Hank’s robe over his naked shoulders to keep the neighbors from gossiping any more than they already do, the fact that Hank now lives with an android who looks more than twenty years his junior a favorite topic at the Lopez house across the street, at least according to Hank. Connor isn’t sure he’s ever even seen them.

 

He pushes his bare feet into his CyberLife loafers and heads out the front door, circling around the house until he finds Hank on his ladder. “What are you doing up there?” Connor laughs, a little overwhelmed at the sight.

 

Hank tilts his head down and his eyes widen as they land on Connor. “Oh shit, you’re awake.” He glances at the string of lights in his hand. “This was kinda meant to be a surprise… I knew you were doing your mini hibernation and I thought I’d get this done before you woke up.”

 

“Oh.” Connor shifts his weight from foot to foot. “Sorry…”

 

Hank gives a dismissive wave and eyes the remaining string of lights wrapped loosely around his arm. He turns his eyes back to Connor and arches his brow at his getup. “I know you don’t get cold, but I’m freezing my ass off just looking at you. Go back inside and I’ll call you when I’m done, ok?”

 

Connor nods and runs back into the house, and he doesn’t know if it’s the long stasis or something else, but he feels somehow elevated. He hangs Hank’s robe from the hook on the bathroom door and does a quick job of applying a layer of cleansing gel on his chassis while Hank isn’t around to see him without his synthetic skin. It’s not that he’s ashamed of how he looks underneath the surface, but he knows it’s another thing they shouldn’t rush, just like Hank’s issues in the bedroom.

 

He eyeballs his crisp white shirt where it hangs next to Hank’s hippy stripes in the closet, but ends up pulling on an old flannel shirt that smells of Hank.

 

It’s another fifteen minutes until Hank finally raps his knuckles against the kitchen window and he’s waiting in the driveway with his hands behind his back when Connor steps out. Connor settles against his flank, the down filling in Hank’s heavy parka rustling as he throws his arm over Connor’s shoulder.

 

“It’s been a while since I’ve done this, so I’ve probably fucked it up, but Cole used to love these lights so we’d put them up at the old house every Christmas and I thought-” Hank’s voice breaks in the middle of the sentence and he looks away when Connor tries to catch his eye. “Anyway, it’s not much, but I hope you like it.”

 

Hank hurries into the garage and shoves the cord into the electric socket in the wall, and both Connor and Sumo look up when the house is bathed in a colorful glow of hundreds of tiny LED lamps. Connor steals a quick glance at the Peterson house on the other side of the fence with twice as many lights and reindeers frolicking by the driveway, but none of it is quite as lovely as the lights on Hank’s house, perfect in their imperfection.

 

Connor takes a hold of Hank’s hand and laces their fingers together. He allows his skin to retract up to his knuckles, the beat of Hank's pulse wild against the plastic of his thumb.

 

“It’s perfect, Hank.”

 

Fin


End file.
